And meantime Hannah, with the rapture of a new love in her heart, followed her father, Oyster McOyster McShamus, to the cottage.  Oyster McOyster, even in advancing age, was a fine specimen of Scotch manhood.  Ninety-seven years of age, he was approaching the time when many of his countrymen begin to show the ravages of time.  But he bore himself straight as a lath, while his tall stature and his native Highland costume accentuated the fine outline of his form.  This costume consisted of a black velvet beetle-shell jacket, which extended from the shoulder half-way down the back, and was continued in a short kilt of the tartan of the McShamuses, which extended from the waist half-way to the thigh.  The costume reappeared again after an interval in the form of rolled golf stockings, which extended half-way up to the knee, while on his feet a pair of half shoes were buckled half-way up with a Highland clasp.  On his head half-way between the ear and the upper superficies of the skull he wore half a Scotch cap, from which a tall rhinoceros feather extended half-way into the air.

A pair of bagpipes were beneath his arm, from which, as he walked, he blew those deep and plaintive sounds which have done much to imprint upon the characters of those who hear them a melancholy and resigned despair.

At the door of the cottage he turned and faced his daughter.

“What said Ian McWhinus to you i’ the burnside?” he said fiercely.

“’Twas nae muckle,” said Hannah, and she added, for the truth was ever more to her than her father’s wrath, “he gi’ed me saxpence for a fush.”

“Siller!” shrieked the Highlander.  “Siller from a McWhinus!”

Hannah handed him the sixpence.  Oyster McOyster dashed it fiercely on the ground, then picking it up he dashed it with full force against the wall of the cottage.  Then, seizing it again he dashed it angrily into the pocket of his kilt.

They entered the cottage.

Hannah had never seen her father’s face so dour as it looked that night.

Their home seemed changed.

Hannah and her mother and father sat down that night in silence to their simple meal of oatmeal porridge and Scotch whisky.  In the evening the mother sat to her spinning.  Busily she plied her work, for it was a task of love.  Her eldest born, Jamie, was away at college at Edinburgh, preparing for the ministry.  His graduation day was approaching, and Jamie’s mother was spinning him a pair of breeches against the day.  The breeches were to be a surprise.  Already they were shaping that way.  Oyster McShamus sat reading the Old Testament in silence, while Hannah looked into the peat fire and thought of the beautiful young Laird.  Only once the Highlander spoke.

“The McWhinus is back,” he said, and his glance turned towards the old flint-lock musket on the wall.  That night Hannah dreamed of the feud, of the Glen and the burn, of love, of lobsters, and of the Laird of Loch Aucherlocherty.  And when she rose in the morning there was a wistful look in her eyes, and there came no song from her throat.